


Tap-Dance on an Avalanche: Or the Subtle Art of Asset Recruitment

by akasha_d



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-09-28 10:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17181176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akasha_d/pseuds/akasha_d
Summary: How Clint Barton got his groove on, found a family and saved the world. With some minor setbacks along the way, diversions, revisions and perhaps happiness at the end.





	1. Test for Resilience: Psychological Warfare

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I haven’t written anything for ages (literally years) and I thought I would have a play in the Avengers sandbox and see what could happen. Constructive feedback is very much appreciated. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fan contribution to the MCU and is not intended to be a copyright infringement.

“Talk to me Hawkeye.”

Clint nearly hoots at the familiar voice in his ear. But he is a professional so he only chuckles. “Didn’t expect to hear you boss. I thought I was assigned to Agent Jackson for this mission.”

While talking, Clint slips around an exhaust vent and tucks himself at the very edge of a sloped roof. The shadow of the vent gives him adequate cover. From his position he can see at least three of the four primary intersections between the three warehouses. If he needs to shoot, the hit angle would be close to impossible unless he is literally hanging over the edge of the roof. But close to impossible is Hawkeye’s bread and butter. Clint notches an arrow and crouches into position.

“Well,” says Phil dryly “he apparently put in a formal complaint against you this morning. Citing something about unprofessional behavior, problems with authority and you not being a team player. We were all terribly surprised. Anything you want to add?”

Clint doesn’t think he has very much more that he can add. His last year with the team was…less than ideal. When we was recruited (read: kidnapped) he had hoped…well he had hoped for something different. But, the great thing about being Clint Barton was that he has years and years of experience living with disappointment.

“Well sir, aside from the direct quotes from my last psych eval, if Jackson wants to tell me how to do my job, where to sit and how to wipe my ass, he is more than welcome to go to _his_ recommended position, with its absolutely shit cover and we can see who can shoot who in the nuts.”

Phil releases a sigh and Clint can hear the suppressed disappointment. Clint knows that Phil had high hopes for Jackson. Most promising new handlers are trialed on Clint, mostly to weed out the incompetent, fragile and inflexible ones. So far, out of fourteen only three have passed and one of them (Maria Hill) won just by being the second scariest motherfucker in the room (Fury won by a hair, but it varied depending on the time of the month).  

“Noted. I’ll have a word with him about asset management and have a chat with HR about the complaint.  I’m sure there is a notice in your file about not micromanaging your position. Perhaps if we used neon post-its this time people will actually read it?”

Clint chuckles, “Nah, already tried. Stuck it to his face while he was snoring. He didn’t seem too convinced oddly enough.”

“You were remarkably restrained. The last time this happened we had to fumigate the sixth and seventh floors. What did Agent Anson do again?”

“He impugned the honor of my ass.” Clint replies. To be honest…it wasn’t just his ass (which is phenomenal, thank you very much). Agent Anson shared his opinion that Clint’s specialty with a bow was overrated, outdated and he was only a valuable asset because Coulson apparently fancied his ass, which wasn’t that great anyway. Anson, may not have been as verbal had he known that Clint was around. Which he didn’t because…air vents.  

You do not, impugn the honor of Clint Barton.

 “What did you fill that water gun with by the way?” Phil asks casually, in the background Clint can hear frantic typing, someone somewhere is updating the mission. “Most reports vary between rotten cheese and the concentrated essence of Sitwell’s unwashed gym shorts.”  Phil sounds nearly impressed. Which makes Clint feel oddly warm and gooey.

Clint snickers “My own secret recipe sir. Even the lab nerds couldn’t figure it out.” Only because no one had ever worked with a dehydrated lion. It really was just strong blue cheese further fermented in lion piss with other fragrant additives. Sitwell’s gym shorts may have contributed to the list of ingredients. 

 Phil hum’s into the comm unit. It’s his ‘I’m not happy with what’s going on but orders are orders’ hum.

“Hawkeye, we’ve just got in some secondary mission parameters. Keep an eye out for any unusual movements. The weapons trade is set to go off as planned but we may have some unexpected company.”

That peaks Clint’s interest. It’s not often that missions get officially modified mid run. “When you say company…?”

“Still classified. Just keep an eye out for any unusual movement.” Phil replies.

“Roger boss.” After a few minutes of silence, “I see a rat sir, down by warehouse three, rear exit. Looks nasty. I hope everyone has had their shots.”

Clint can feel the suppressed eye-twitch. “Thank you for that update Hawkeye, now keep an eye out for anything larger than a breadbox and faster than a bird.”

“We talking African swallow or European?”

Somewhere in the mobile bunker where Phil is on comms, an analyst bursts out laughing.

“Eyes on Hawkeye.” Phil puts up with a lot but when he draws the line, Clint general abides. Issues with authority or not.

“Roger sir.” Clint gets comfortable in his perch and settles in for a long wait. If anything of his is a true superpower (aside from a ridiculous knack for angles and an eye that sees better at a distance) it would be sitting very still for hours without feeling it. And hours do pass before Clint catches a flicker of movement.

“Sir, would bigger than a breadbox cover say, a redhead in a cat-suit?”

The response is immediate “Location?”

“Between warehouse three and four, southwest corner.” Clint focuses, he sees her hunched form, arm curled around her stomach. “Possible injury, but if this is who I think it is, I don’t trust anything.”

Clint keeps his eyes on her while Phil seems to very calmly lose his shit at someone else on the comms. “Jacob’s I need visual. Team Beta get into position. Black Widow has been sighted. Hawekeye, keep her in view until further notice. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage!”

Clint is a sniper and he knows ultimately that he wasn’t put up here to play eye-ball with the most wanted woman in the northern hemisphere (and southern as well if you believe Sitwell’s sleep deprived ramblings). “I have a clear shot, just saying. I don’t know for how long she’ll stay still though. My angle is kinda tight.”

Clint is a sniper, and snipers kill people.

The only difference between his years with the military, later as a freelance assassin and now is that now he actually trusts the assholes sanctioning the kill. Phil Coulson wouldn’t be here for anything less.

“Hold position and await further orders.” Phil confirms before his line goes mute. Must be calling it in to Fury who would have to green light it with the Security Council. 

“Affirmative boss.” Clint replies while pulling back the string on his bow in readiness. When the order comes (and it will come) the shot can be done nearly instantly. He keeps a keen eye on her movements, ready for any shift in position.

Instead, she just sits there. Crouched into a corner and curled up into a ball. Her head on her knees and he can just make out her hitching breaths.

A worm of paranoia eats at him. Why isn’t she moving? Is this a trap?

Clint knows assassins. Though he didn’t go through whatever-the-fuck fire/water/magic training school that a soviet era spy/assassin/mad badger had to survive, his own training wasn’t a bed of roses either.

Animal instincts don’t go away. Getting hurt=hide, evaluate and recoup. No physically mobile agent would remain tucked in the corner of what is essentially an open space with full visual from a roof. It was one of the reasons agent did a headcount sound-off whenever an OP dusted off. This organization had its own group mad badger agents it had to herd to medical before they disappeared into the wind/underground/ a bunker in parts unknown.

Paranoia is an old friend of Clint’s. Paranoia was why he spent his first six months at his new job, sleeping strictly in air vents.

She moves. Tilting her head back so that it is resting against the brick of the building behind her. In the limited lighting near her, he can make out her unsurprisingly stunning features and the pale arch of her throat; a soft target for an arrow. Clint has a very good idea how she got away with half the shit she did. A face like that could get anywhere and make anyone say anything.

She also looks bone weary. The kind of empty-gas-tank-tired that speaks about being two inches away from fucking running towards an arrow if given half the chance.

Clint _knows_ that look. It was laminated on his face every time he came home from an assassination, bone tired, bloody and achingly alone.

SHIELD, likely saved his life when they caught him after an assassination (some minister in some country he couldn’t pronounce) went FUBAR at full speed. Custody boiled down to spending two hours having verbal show down with Director Fury (which Clint lost) and having Phil complete the conversational equivalent of a cavity search and ask him if he was ready to come in (which he was).

The mandatory psych evaluation report called it ‘suicidal ideation’. It really boiled down to Clint wondering what a fired bullet tasted like.

The latest reports indicated that Black Widow went independent about a year ago and her old employers as well as some other parties were very, very interested in getting her back. Preferably alive. Ideally….permanently incapacitated.

There are far worse things you can do to someone instead of death. And Widow probably had been living it for a year.

She seemed plenty alone down there too.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a no good—very bad—idea is brewing. Clint knows a bad idea when he has one. It doesn’t stop him though. 

His comm unit crackles to life. “The mission has been authorized Hawkeye. Take her down.”

She looks up then, nearly as though she can hear the order. She doesn’t move beyond turning towards him, as though she knew he was there all along. He meets her moon-silvered eyes, her pale throat still bared to the world.  Clint knows that if he shoots now, even if she moves, he will hit her and will have a second arrow out by the time she hits the ground. If she is as good as her reputation suggests, then she knows this too. But she is still there. Still looking at him as though she is waiting for him to end her.

“Barton! Confirm your order.” Phil repeats. Clint knows that Phil is freaking out a small bit.

Clint releases the tension on his string and puts the arrow back into its quiver. Black widow doesn’t move but he detects a degree of confusion.

“Um Phil.” Clint starts knowing that he is about to _wreck_ everything. “I think I’m going to have to go offline for a bit. I’m about to try something really stupid.”

“Barton, I want you to think very, very carefully before you answer my next question. Stupid how?”

Clint feels really bad for a bit. But aside from the issues with authority his psych profile also stated that Clint was highly impulsive and a very creative problem solver. Hopefully the last two will save his ass.

“I’m gonna try to recruit the Black Widow.”

Clint hears what could the start of a vicious swear before he turns off his earpiece. He knows that with the batteries in the earpiece it is technically a very efficient tracker so he pulls out the batteries. He knows that his bow and suite have their own trackers but they are much less efficient and primarily are used for recovery either after a battle or for repatriation after death. They only point to the general area of destruction.

If he fucks this up, he legitimately can die and it will be entirely his own fault.

Clint sighs. How does he put himself into these situations? Stupid brain. Clint shakes off his moment of distraction and sees that Black widow has bounced up to her toes. It’s a more mobile position and she is likely to make a run for it.

Well if it’s a run she wants.

Clint swings himself over the edge of the roof just as Black widow makes a run for it.

Tag? He can play tag.


	2. Emotional Intelligence: An introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawk meets Widow and exploding boobies may or may not be mentioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! Please flag any grammar/ spelling errors you see. I have read this chapter so many times that I honestly cannot read it anymore. I have decided to compile all the edits together and get it all over and done with once this story reaches its end. Thanks again guys!  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Emotional Intelligence: An introduction

Clint ducks as a small malformed rock/cement projectile hits the brick wall where his head was. Stupid super humans with the stamina of bloody hamsters on speed. Clint has regrets about his ‘recruit the soviet human weapon' plan. Mainly as there is a lot more running, hiding, crawling and dodging slimy furry things that may have once been rats than he signed up for. His head is oddly tingly and Clint has a very, very bad feeling that there are _things_ in his hair.

It has been two days since his last mission and Clint’s mood has just about hit bedrock.  

Irritated, Clint bends down, picks up the same clump of rock/cement and flings it over the crates in front of him and back in her direction. Based on the dull _thunk_ , it doesn’t meet its target but it gives a warm sense of petty satisfaction.

“You done yet?” Clint asks, because at this point he is interested in having a timeline for this madness.

Another stone projectile comes sailing over the crates and nearly hits his left ear. The widow must have some periscope-eyeball super power because there is no other way to justify her accuracy with zero visuals. Clint picks it up again and throws it over again.

A lager clump of rock sails over the boxes and this one lands straight on his head. Fucking periscope- eyeballs.

The odd cocktail of fatigue, irritation and adrenal dredge does its dice roll in his head and rolls out snake eyes. When in a stalemate, the options are to withdraw or shake things up.

“Shakey shakey eggs and bake-ie” Clint whispers to himself just as his senses start tingling.

No one has been able to explain Clint’s impossible accuracy. Good with a gun, better with a bow best with a moving target. He’s been tested for premonition, psychic powers the X gene, genius level math, godly powers of prediction and in Fury’s words ‘for being just fucking _weird’_. Its times like these, Clint wonders if it might be all of the above in very, very small and specific quantities.

For example, he knows that he is going to have to roll, because he knows she is creeping towards his cover- crate box. How he knows this, he cannot explain but he can picture the points of movement in his head. He knows how to hold his bow and how far back to pull it to hit the elbow shoulder knee and neck. It’s clear in his head. Instinct, experience, the inherent survival skill of a scamp, any and all of the above tell him to break cover and either retaliate or escalate.

Escalate is infinitely more fun.

In a beat, Clint pops up from behind the box. As nearly expected, she is close to his cover, arms outstretched and nearly touching the wood of the crate, in the hand behind her there is the flash of a lean dagger.

She freezes and Clint makes a kissy face before he rolls off to the side and behind a dusty pillar.

The frustrated twang of a knife hitting wood is oddly gratifying.  Then there is a sigh, the first bit of audible noise from her.

“You done yet?” Clint asks again, with the air of a toddler asking ‘are we there yet’ on repeat.

She unexpectedly laughs. It would be a lovely laugh, if it weren’t for the dusty dry quality of it as well as the lack of any humour at all.  “Are you?”

Clint expected an accent. A bad villain, rough Russian accent. What he gets instead is nothing at all. Her vowels and consonants are rounded and mellow. She could be from anywhere. He shouldn’t be surprised, she is a spy after all. And assassin. He shouldn’t forget that bit. He wonders if they could start a club.

“I’d like to call time out for an undie change. Mine are starting to chafe.”

There is a shuffle and a creak and Clint peaks around his pillar to see her leaning casually on his crate. Her ankles are crossed and so are her arms. The arms draw attention to her lush breasts outlined spectacularly by the Cat suite. Its intentional he knows, everything about her is intentional. Sex appeal with a side of murder.  

No subtle ogling here lady. “Boobies!” he calls because he is a man God damn it and he will call it as he sees it. “Are they armed? Do they explode when squeezed?”

She sighs and uncrosses her arms. It doesn’t help really, and Clint tries to imagine if they are perky naturally or she has custom made bullet-proof underwear with compartments like Batman’s utility belt. The interest is purely professional of course, in a dire situation he once had to use a bra strap to shoot a projectile. Agent Sharmin was not impressed with the ‘give me your bra if you want to live’ line..

“You have a brain of a juvenile. Whatever your organisation is paying you, it is too much.”

Clint inches out from behind the pillar to have a better look at her. “Nah, I’m good at what I do. Don’t miss a shot.”

She looks away. “Except today.”

“Nope.” Clint answers, resting his weight on his heels. “Can’t miss a shot I don’t take. And clearly I didn’t want to take that shot.”

She looks back at him, her face an exquisite blank mask. But he can smell her fury and he doesn’t buy the whole ice cube assassin thing.

“What do you actually want? It can’t be to kill me, I gave you that chance.”

Clint scratches his ear. Ticks? Possibly flees. Jesus. “Well, the current scuttle-butt is that your old boss wants you incapacitated and returned. My instructions were to kill you.”

“Death would be preferable.” She says. No emotion on her face, no inflection in her voice. It’s like she is ordering sushi. One side of death, extra soy hold the wasabi.

Clint scratches the back of his head again. Definitely fleas, fuck. He drops to his butt onto the floor under him and crosses his legs. It’s a dangerous position. If she attacks, it will take him precious seconds to get back into motion. He watches her relax at his position and knows he made the right call.  She’s on edge but not to attack.

Clint shakes his head. “If that’s what you want, then you are on your own. I am not registered for mercy killings on request. There are permits for that kind of shit. I’ll happily leave you be and go back to my handler for a couple of knuckle taps and get on with my life.”

“Do you have an alternative for me then?”

Well, Clint scratches his head again because, FLEAS! “Well, you could join me, I mean us.”

She looks…he doesn’t want to say unimpressed, but she looks unimpressed.

Clint sighs “we are not a big team and primarily we deal with the weird shit. Bigger than drug lords smaller than world wars. The money is shit and the hours are crap and our boss is the most terrifying man alive. But, they won’t leave you behind. If you need your team, they will be there. My handler is a terror in designer ties and he probably organises his paperclips by size as a hobby. But push comes to shove he took a rocket launcher to a terror cell that had the audacity to kidnap me”. 

For this part he leans forward, because it is important and Nat (fuck it, he’s gonna call her Nat because he likes her), “I am not alone. It’s not family, not yet. But it can be.”

“Aren’t you tired of being alone yet?” he asks because those same words from Phill broke him when he was on the other side of the gun.

She looks like she sucks on the idea for a moment. As far as Clint is concerned, thinking is good. Thinking about it is not running away screaming, or shooting him in the head. Either one is possible with Nat.

“What would be different?” she asks. Which again, Clint internally cheers about because it’s not a ‘no, kill me now’ or ‘fuck off’ or better still ‘die’.  

“Well,” Clint starts, with no idea where this will go, “I can only speak from my experience. And any promises I make, beyond hauling your ass out of a fire if needs be, probably won’t be sanctioned by my team until it goes through my handler and then again by my boss. But if you are interested in meeting them, and maybe seeing for yourself who you could be working with, I could do that.”

She mumbles something to herself in Russian, which now makes learning a second language the top thing on Clint’s to-do list. She then runs her hand through her hair and then straightens up and looks Clint in the eye.

In his head, he hears the doom song.

“I will give you a chance. One. Not them; you.” She turns around and begins to make her way to a nearby window. “Prove me wrong.”

She then fucking backflips out the window and into what Clint _knows_ is a wharf. He rushes to the window to check, but there is nothing there not even a ripple in the water.

 Fucking soviet magic training.

Clint swears and keeps looking out of the window as he slips the battery back into his comm unit and boots it up before placing it into his ear. It takes a minute before he hears the odd buzz that indicates an open comm line.

“This is Hawkeye reporting in.”

There a thump on the other side before a familiar voice comes on.

“Talk to me, Hawkeye.”

“Boss, you are not going to _believe_ my day.” 


	3. The art of the interview: Non-aggression is key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint explains why stalking is the preferred method of recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I had most of this chapter written up before the last one. It was just such fun to write!

Clint sits in the interrogation room in scrubs and a pink floral shower cap on (because FLEAS! And Sitwell is an asshole) and wonders where his dignity is hiding and what sort of exorcism he will need to do to get it back up to regs. 

Across from him sits Director Fury in all his eye-patched glory looking like he is holding himself back from mass homicide only by the skin of his teeth. He is also very bald, which is a lifestyle choice that Clint is beginning to appreciate. 

Standing beside Fury and looking like the ultimate hybrid between spook and personal assistant, Phil reads over Clint’s report; Which Clint had to write out, verbally dictate and then answer spot questions on all while getting his hair picked through like a baboon. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was just thoroughly searched by medical for any signs of ingested poisons, stimulants or truth serums, he could be faulted for thinking that there may be an issue of trust here. 

Fury breaks the silence, as is his want, “So you are telling me, that you attempted to recruit a target you were EXPLICITLY told to shoot in the head?” 

Clint clears his throat and prepares to answer. His possible answer may have contained unwise expletives involving the terms ‘go’, and ‘fuck yourself’ respectively, but Phil cuts in first. 

“Actually sir, the exact order was to ‘take her down’. The specific method was not identified.” Phil’s voice has all the emotive characteristics of white milk bread. Like watching a prima ballerina tiptoe around fine print. 

Fury’s lone eyeball stares back at Phil with such rage that Phil, by all unknown laws of thermodynamics, should have exploded. Phil flips to another page in the report. 

Let it be said that Phil Coulson is a bad-ass. Though Clint’s mental image may now also include a tutu.

Sleep deprivation. Fun times for the brain. 

Fury returns his gaze to Clint. “So, just to clarify. You took the instruction of ‘take her out’ as what? Take her out downtown? Go for a show, woo her with the joys of counter terrorism and espionage. Eat some motherfucking ice-cream?!”

Clint opens his mouth again, already putting together an Oscar winning sentence involving a pachyderm, Fury’s ass and the creative applications of the two, before Phil once again cuts in.

“Technically sir, she took him to town, through the sewers” Phill flips a page, “up through some rafters” there goes another page “and then through the wharf district.” 

“DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING SPECIFIC YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAY AGENT COULSON?!” Fury calmly asks. 

Phil looks up from the reports and meets Fury gaze. Milk toast all right. Cold milk toast. Possibly even soggy. 

“Not especially sir. I will update you if that changes.” 

Fury does his laser gaze thing at Phil before turning back to Clint. “And after all that utter madness, you arranged an open invitation like a playdate?”

Clint looks at Phil, who has gone back to reading the report, for advice. Seeing as he seems occupied Clint takes it as permission to reply. 

“Yes.” 

Fury stares at him, as though expecting more. Clint doesn’t comply. 

Fury rubs the bridge of his nose like he is fending off the world’s worst headache. “Barton, why did you think it was a good idea to recruit a known spy who likely will come into our organisation and burn it to the ground?” 

Clint reaches up to his shower cap to scratch at his hair that is still itching terribly. Phil clears his throat and Clint drops his hand.   
“Well sir, you kinda set up a bad example.” 

Clint swears that he hears Phil smother a snicker but it’s Fury that makes the strangled noise. “You mean?” Fury asks though the look on his face means that he knows the answer. 

Clint fidgets again. He desperately wants a shower, but he knows unless he gives an answer that Fury likes, no one gets to have one. “Well sir, you recruited me in kind of the same way. I skipped the kidnapping though, I think for future reference gentle stalking seems to be more effective.” 

Fury’s face reflects a deep and abiding sense of horror. Because really, Clint is right. He was kidnapped from a live OP and then conscripted to work with Fury. Phil hides his face behind the report but Clint knows that he is silently laughing. 

“Barton” Fury starts, “I don’t know what you haver brewing in that weird head of yours but I need you to know something.” Fury clears his throat, “THIS IS NOT A PYRAMID SCHEME! I do not need you to go recruit other assets. I have whole teams out there sourcing the finest minds in the world.”

“Yeah, but none of them could get the Widow.” Clint replies.

“WE DIDN’T WANT THE WIDOW!” Fury replies. 

Phil clears it throat again and both Clint and Fury’s gaze fall back to him.

“Actually sir” Phil places the report folder on the table and leans against it. “HR tried to recruit her soon after her transition from the red door was confirmed. They just couldn’t find her. Her possible knowledge of all players in our field would be infinitely valuable.”

Fury stares at Phil for a full thirty seconds in silence. 

“Coulson.” 

“Yes Sir?” 

“When we are done with this entire pile of bullshit, I want you to remind me to put our whole HR team through the most vigorous round of psych evaluations that we have capacity to provide.” 

Phil nods, and seems to take a mental note, “The one involving the sensory deprivation chamber?” 

“Yes Phil.” Fury grits out, “I want to fucking include the fucking sensory deprivation chamber.” 

“Done sir.” 

Fury then turns back to Clint with a murderous steel glint in his eye. Clint feels sorry for the HR department, truly. “Now Agent Barton. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that your recruitment of the Black Widow is not a sex thing.” 

Clint swallows. Well, the answer isn’t as straightforward as he would like. “No sir. My interest in the Black Widow is not a sex thing.” Strictly true, she is attractive and competent, but so is Phil and you didn’t see Clint drooling over him? Not out in the open at least. 

Clint finishes with, “I hear she kills after mating.” 

Fury rubs a palm across his forehead. “Barton, I will give you this. You are officially too stupid to be alive, but if—and it is a big but and a bigger if— if she proves true you may have just brought us our biggest asset to date.” 

Clint pouts. “Aw sir, I thought I was your biggest asset to date.” 

Fury smiles with too many teeth “Something like that. You just added in a few too many letters.” 

“Don’t think that this stunt doesn’t get you grounded though. You are officially off duty for the foreseeable future until someone can guarantee to me that this entire thing was not some kind of psychotic break. You will attend your psych sessions and you will comply with every regulation, procedure and protocol I throw at you until I am satisfied that you are not clinically insane enough to blow us up to kingdom come with fucking confetti.”, 

Fury leans forward then, his palms on the steel table and looming in Clint’s space. 

“Do.You.Understand?”

Clint nods, “Yes sir”. 

Fury then nods, stands and turns to Phil, “I leave him to you then Agent Coulson, make sure he doesn’t make this a habit.” 

Phil looks back with one of his plain, non-emoting looks. “I will do my best sir.”

Fury looks at Phil then back at Clint “See that you do.” He then struts out of the interrogation room with his black coat flaring dangerously out behind him. 

You can say many unpleasant things about Nick Fury, but no one could deny that the man has style. 

_____________________________________________

Clint is told later, mostly by Phil, that Black Widow has gone to ground. Fury’s irritation is palpable second-hand through the pale, shell-shocked faces of agents coming out of his office (barring Phil of course, who comes out whistling). 

He also hears that the HR department have barricaded themselves in their office to fend off the psych team and are threatening to announce all the shameful details of their attackers’ personal files over the office loudspeaker.

Overall it feels like a regular Tuesday.

Clint would be happier about the situation if it wasn’t for the fact that when he heads back to medical, sans shower cap (HA!), he starts pissing blood. 

Dr Jones, (Clint’s regular med-head) is not impressed, makes him pee in a jar and gives him meds with the general advice to avoid stress, not go to disgusting places and to refrain from sitting still for long periods of time. Clint nearly gets a concussion when he laughs himself off the medical table. Jones laughing breathlessly right there with him. Clint knows there is a reason why he likes the doctor. 

Once the meds are done and peeing stops becoming a chore, Clint gets sent back out in the field. 

His first OP is a cake walk. His task is literally to sit on roof for fifteen hours. It is dull, repetitive and completely contrived by Director Fury to see if Nat is still around. No one sees anything and aside from a vague itch between his shoulder blades Clint doesn’t pick anything up. 

The next few operations are very much the same. No concrete evidence that she is actually there, but some suspicious inner instinct that has pulled Clint through many a dark night tells him that she is watching. The fact that he is paired with Phil exclusively during this time cements the idea. 

In a fit of boredom Clint decides to paste a small white card on his back with the words “Enjoying the View?” 

When his operation ends, he goes back to the communication van to unplug from his com unit and finds a card taped to the mirror of the truck. 

“Rather dull.”

Clint cracks up like a madman and the security team have synchronized hernias when he gets the breath back to explain why.


End file.
